


Warmth

by Shachaai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 11:28:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19744810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: There is something very soothing about taking a shower whilst the autumn evening slinks down on the world outside.





	Warmth

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted from tumblr.

There is something very soothing about taking a shower whilst the autumn evening slinks down on the world outside, water pattering off of the bathroom tiles just as light rain patters off the windows. England lingers in the shower overlong because of it, thumbing away the blob of hair conditioner that has caught itself on her collarbone and closing her eyes to tip her head back under the spray, the bathroom’s amber lights soft through the steam and the veil of her eyelashes.

When she emerges at last to pad barefoot through to her suitcase where she left it in the bedroom, a damp and pink-nosed France is already back from his errand, bustling around in his kitchen - which England had been forbidden from whilst he had been out of the apartment, on threat of being denied the delicious-smelling dinner bubbling away in the slow cooker. Outside the bathroom, the light is dull and grey; for all her lights, Paris is very drab under low thick clouds and relentless rain, a wet chilly misery England is very glad to be on the other side of walls to see, pulling on knickers, cloth trousers, and one of her oldest, softest jumpers and turning with a shiver away from the raindrops dripping down the bedroom windows. She can hear the wind outside the building, a chill that twines around her ankles until she makes her way across hardwood and up onto France’s sofa, bare toes tucked up under her own legs and her wet hair still dribbling down the nape of her neck.

France, migrated to the sofa before her, innovative groundbreaker - she can be complimentary, he has brought them both mugs of tea from the kitchen, a plate of snacks before dinner -, takes the towel from around her shoulders, starts patting and squeezing the moisture from her hair with his familiar persnicketiness. England passively submits to his ministrations because it leaves her hands free to cradle the mug of hot tea and because it stops him lecturing her about head colds and split ends, leaning back just a little into the press of France’s body behind her on the sofa. Taking strain off her spine.

“Are those macarons?” England asks, peering inquisitively over her mug at the snacks - a pile of pretty little orange-y brown things arranged delicately on a plate. Those are macarons.

“Of course you notice the sweets, you terrible creature,” France tells her, exasperated, but his breath blows warm over her throat from behind her with his amused huff. A contrast to the tip of his nose, cold from his trip outside, a run to the shops for some mysterious essential ingredient they could _not_ do without. England ignores him; he hardly brought macarons to the sofa with the intention for them _not_ to be eaten. “They are cinnamon spice.”

“You’re cold,” England informs him candidly, putting down her tea to wrap her hair up with the towel in France’s hands, slinging it carelessly over her shoulder. If the water bleeds through she will have damp fabric clinging to her breast, but that is still miles better than the slow trickle of water down her back. “Give me one?”

“Just _one?_ ” France asks, eyebrow delicately arched even though he has already reached for the plate. A lifetime has taught them both that England is not above thieving France’s desserts if they are not offered to her promptly, taking them by both moral and underhanded means in vast numbers. Mostly underhanded means. Being spoilt indulges England’s shamelessness, and she and France have known each other too long for them not to both know that France loves feeding people and having his cooking admired, and that England will - silently and grudgingly - admire France’s cooking as long as he feeds her it.

“ _Give,_ ” England demands, stretching out her fingers for the plate.

France keeps it tantalisingly out of reach, holding one of the macarons that had been on it straight to her mouth. His thumb rubs her lips until they part, smooth pad against shower-warm fullness almost as good as a dizzying kiss.

The macaron is sweet and breaks apart beautifully, delicately, to the slight pressure of England’s teeth, the shell bracketed with thicker, stickier cream that sends a shock of warm cinnamon spice-sweetness through England’s mouth.

England hums in pleasure, flopping back more fully into the Nation behind her and caring not one jot for France’s cool fingers flirting up underneath the edges of her jumper, a delicate touch against warmer skin. There are many sacrifices she is willing to make, and France’s warming mouth pressing slow drugging kisses to the side of her neck are not something she feels like leaving her creatures comforts to avoid. This evening, the kisses feel like _one_ of those creature comforts.

France smiles against her skin, smug enough that England is contractually obliged to blindly lift her palm up over her shoulder and shove it halfheartedly in his face. “Some days, I am unsure if you come here for the company, sex, or food.”

England pats the general area of his face clumsily, ignoring the still-amused huff of his breath against her lifeline. It counts as affection when she’s lazy, and the shower and the petting has made her _very_ lazy. “Which answer gets me another macaron?”


End file.
